Not A Car

"Give us your hand," is the last thing Ross expected Smith to say and the invitation being offered palm-up by the hand not precariously balancing a cigarette between its fingers wasn't exactly anticipated either.

"What?" He smirks, taking a drag, and glances between Smith's still upheld palm and his unreadable smile.

"What's the problem?" Smith counters and wiggles his fingers, "it's just us up here,"

This is true, here being the rooftop terrace they are using as their unofficial break area outside the ongoing party indoors, but the muffled chatter and music spilling under the door is close enough that Ross doesn't feel distant from the other attendees. Then again, he knows what Smith is asking, is very aware that stars have aligned themselves in the guise of whimsical fairy lights draped around the overhead trellis and are lending an undeniably romantic atmosphere to their surroundings, and he is sufficiently uninhibited by both alcohol and nicotine. So, sighing to show reluctance - even if it isn't entirely honest - he swaps the hand holding his cigarette and places his hand in Smith's.

"I'll tell you now," he says, letting Smith draw him closer and overturn their hands, cupping his own beneath Smith's, "I can't dance."

"Easily fixed," Smith shrugs and guides Ross' other hand to his waist, somehow juggling their cigarettes around each other without burning anything, and places his own on Ross' shoulder, "I'm not an expert, but I know some things,"

"Oh, right?" Ross smirks, can't help himself, and tries not to dwell on the buzzing pressure building in the small space between their bodies. It is surprisingly easy to step forwards when Smith steps back, to lean into him and follow his guidance; to understand Smith's slight head tilt as an instruction to side-step and shuffle their position an inch to the right.

"See?" Smith grins and repeats their initial forays, "easy,"

"Are you letting me lead?" Ross posits, having acknowledged their hands' placements.

"Made sense," is the only reason he is given alongside Smith's gaze sliding away as if avoiding him, "height difference says otherwise, but I uh-," he frowns then, quizzical like his words don't make sense to him either, "I dunno, I liked the idea of it, I guess,"

"Alright," seeing no point in arguing, Ross repeats their middling steps a few more times before pausing, taking his hand off Smith's waist and lifting it to drag from his cigarette. The glow catches Smith's eyes this close, sunlight amber flashing on cerulean waves and, in the moment, Ross allows himself to think of it as pretty. He wouldn't say this out loud, of course, but no harm ever came from simply thinking.

He replaces his hand on Smith's waist, ignores the comfortable warmth which spreads into his palm and relaxes, tuning into the distant music rather than overthinking his circumstances. But then, Smith ducks forwards, every atom within Ross' being freezes, and his eyes are pinpoint focused on Smith's profile as it edges too close to his own in aid of reaching his cigarette without moving his hand from Ross' shoulder.

"Uh," Ross says, wavering and uncertain. Instead of leaning into his earlier position, Smith aligns their cheeks to exhale and thus spills warmth all along Ross' jaw and neck, folding smoke around his shirt collar. Even when his breath has subsided, he remains, humming along to the music in an undertone and setting Ross' nerve endings alight.

"One day," he muses, low and vibrato against Ross' cheek, "I'll learn more than six steps of a tango,"

"Is that what this is?" Ross asks, privately hating the tiny crack which appears in his voice.

"Was," Smith exhales a chuckle and, in a way that may be accidental yet still causes Ross' breath to catch, presses their chests flush, "we're just sort-of swaying right now,"

"D'you want to stop?" Ross doesn't, not particularly; not when this is the most intimate they have ever been and, although he knows it won't last, he wants to enjoy it whilst he can.

"Mm," Smith's cheek leaves a warm patch on Ross' as he tilts away for another cigarette pull, "not really," only to encourage it by returning a second later, "I quite like being close to you,"

Ross should laugh this off, but doesn't. He should question Smith's motives, but he doesn't. He really, really should say something about their intentions here, inquire as to whether they are aligned or if he is imagining things, but in acknowledging how different this is he might end up breaking it, so he can't. Not right now.

"Yeah, alright," he says instead, closing his eyes and cementing the memory of Smith's warmth, his sweet yet smoky scent and the feeling of something close yet out of reach brimming in his veins, in halcyon concrete. It is easier if he pretends this is a dream, perhaps, and that once they wake up - once they return to both the party and a friendship where they don't embrace on a terrace under facsimile starlight like lovers - the unspoken questions swirling around their ankles akin to morning mist will dissipate as though they never existed. With this in mind, he turns his mouth towards that soft space between Smith's cheek and ear, murmuring, "me, too," like a wish.

Smith is tired, in that state of mind where nothing sticks and any inputs seeking his attention receive a delayed response. At some point, likely because of Ross' matching drowsiness, they stopped making cohesive decisions about what to watch on TV in favour of letting the programming run and now, rolling his head on the sofa arm to squint at the screen, Smith is faintly bemused to acknowledge a nature documentary showcasing how ants use pheromones to communicate.

He lifts his head, lips parted with the intention of voicing his confusion to Ross, but as soon as his gaze alights on him they close again, curling into a soft smile. Ross is barely keeping his eyes open, resting his cheek on one hand - propped up by its corresponding elbow on the sofa - and is so close to drifting off that it takes a few seconds before he notices Smith's attention. Even then, he tilts his head first as though the documentary is far more intriguing and slowly follows with his eyes.

"What?" He murmurs and sits up for a second, only to sink into the cushions and support his head on them instead.

"Why're we watching this?" Smith asks in equally subdued tones and extends the leg that isn't already resting its ankle on Ross' thigh, nudging a foot into his hip.

"S'just on, isn't it," Ross shrugs, reaching down to coil stopping fingers around Smith's ankle. This time, when he tilts his face towards Smith, he carries a tired smirk on his lips, sneaking secret dimples into his cheek, "change the channel if you're that bothered."

"Chuck us the remote, then," Smith jostles his leg, trying to free it from Ross' loose grasp, but all this does is broaden Ross' smirk into a taunting half-grin.

"It's literally next to you," Ross replies yet leans over anyway, carrying on the pretence that he only has the controller in mind right up until his hand is parallel to Smith's hip, trapped between it and the cushions, and his other can tease its way under the hem of his t-shirt, looping a thumb into a belt loop.

"Ross," regardless of the lazy warning present in his voice, Smith pushes himself onto a propped elbow and feels quiet delight trickling along his bones when he brushes affectionate fingers past Ross' temple.

"What?" Ross smirks, coy as anything, and presses a small kiss to the delicately soft pulse point in Smith's wrist.

"That's not the remote," flickering interest is starting to eclipse exhaustion in Smith's veins, a warmth of intention starting at the fingerprints Ross is leaving on his lower stomach and writhing up, past his ribs, to glow promisingly behind his softening gaze.

"Sod the remote," Ross chuckles and, determined to taste the embers smoking out Smith's eyes, carefully lowers himself so that their lips can find each other with an ease that sings in his chest.

Whilst Smith slides his hand into Ross' hair, Ross' slips easily into the bow of his back, pressing palm to skin and encouraging the slowly washing contentment this brings in abundance. Humming, tilting his head to create a seamless connection, Smith fights the urge to smile when Ross follows his lead and gradually rearranges his legs, allowing Ross to settle between them. The promise of something more, something satisfyingly dizzying, builds between their aligned hips like summertime humidity, drenching skin in rousing adrenaline and raising goosebumps in the wake of roaming touches. Starting off slow, almost teasing the shifting air, they roll into one another like opposing tides and steadily fill ceaseless mouths with luminescent seafoam; wash away any lingering dreariness and replacing it with invigorating warmth.

"Mm-," Smith's fingers twitch on Ross' nape as a change of angle threatens his leg's stability, almost sending it off the edge of the sofa.

"You alright?" Ross asks, though his lips merely move to Smith's cheek rather than obstructing his mouth as if he cannot bear to be parted for more than a split second.

"There's not enough room for-," Smith's would-be sentence cracks in two, splintering around a quiet moan, and Ross' grin presses a goading crescent against his cheek as his hand, cupped and welcoming, finds the firmness behind Smith's fly.

As always, ribbons of pure delight unspool and helix around Ross' veins until they wrap around his heart to draw out skipped pulses. Little time is wasted in getting Smith's jeans undone, and even less delay can be attributed to pushing his hand into the tight yield between Smith's dick and jeans. Smudging a moan into his cheek, feeling Smith's hitching inhale against his chest as a whetstone on which he can sharpen desire, Ross forgets he was meant to be tired, forgets the tedious documentary still playing on the TV, and angles his hips, facilitating the subtle rub of his front against Smith's thigh to the metronome of his cursory strokes.

"Wait, hang on," Smith mumbles breathlessly and pushes a separating hand between their chests, leading Ross up.

"What's wrong, mate?" Ross huffs in exasperation, but stops his touches and rests his skittish palm on Smith's stomach instead.

"There's really not enough room," Smith smirks, "I'm almost falling off the bloody sofa." Inspiration strikes then, latching on to a casual announcement made by their absent third earlier, and assists the devilish curl of his grin, "isn't Trott in the bath?"

"You know he's gonna hate that," Ross points out, though it lacks conviction and his eyes won't leave Smith's mouth.

"Since when has that stopped me?" Smith counters and, applying gentle pressure with his hand, guides Ross up in tandem with his own upwards tilt, "come on, you know you want to."

"I hate how convincing you are," Ross chuckles and melts one more hard kiss on the furnace of Smith's mouth before unfurling his limbs, climbing off the sofa with Smith in tow.

In the bathroom, engulfed in slowly dissolving bubbles and partially listening to the mellow melody of a relaxing playlist, Trott closes his eyes, sighs deeply and sinks further below the warm water. It has been ages since he last did this and the knots tangled around his muscles by a recent gym session are steadily unwinding beneath his skin. Of course, he thinks about the others, doubts he is truly able not to, but each thought floats past his mind with ease and none stick to his synapses for long. And then, a pebble in the shoe of his relaxation: Smith's voice murmuring beyond the door and growing louder as he approaches.

A second later, the door opens - Trott really should have locked it - and his eyes open into an admonishing squint pointed directly at Smith leaning smugly on the jamb with an apologetic Ross over his shoulder.

"Why?" Trott drawls, not needing an elaboration or any further questions when his glare is self-evident.

"Having fun in here?" Smith waltzes up to the tub and crouches, leaning folded arms on its edge.

"That's not the point and you know it," Trott sits up, water and foam crackling with the motion, and brings up a hand to shove steam-dampened hair back from his forehead. "Can I not have five minutes without you two hassling me?" His gaze, accusatory and sharp, flicks up to make Ross fidget.

"Don't look at me," Ross defends, "this was Smith's idea."

"Didn't stop him though, did you?" Bringing a knee up, Trott rests a wrist on its apex and returns to derisively scrutinising Smith's licentious expression; noting the shadows in his eyes, the faint pink dusted across his cheeks and a ruddiness to his lips which implies recent kissing. "Stop looking at me like that," he warns him.

"Like what?" One of Smith's hands abandons his folded arms and drops, skimming fingers beneath the water level and creating subtle ripples.

"You know what: like you're seconds away from getting in here with me," Trott is keenly aware that Smith's hand is carefully drifting closer to him, yet maintains eye contact like it is a challenge he can't back down from. "I was trying to relax," he points out sternly.

"You know what else is relaxing?" Smith counters and leans forwards, submerging his forearm in order to reach the real reason he put his hand in the water. Finding Trott half-hard cuts a knowing grin across his lips; watching his eyes flicker and encouraging cursory firmness with careful touches raises a tiny thrill up his spine. "Tell me to stop, if you're so against it."

"Fucking hell," Trott exhales and then, with more intention, looks up at where Ross has silently come closer, "come here, mate," he implores, extending a hand to receive Ross' cheek when he kneels at Smith's side.

The porcelain squeaks as Trott shifts his body, both giving Smith permission by parting his legs as much as possible in the limited space and tilting towards Ross so that guiding him forwards in aid of closing the gap between them is done easily. Keeping Ross close, his fingers slide into his hair alongside their lips opening against each other and a full-bodied shiver weaves through every limb when Smith, borrowing rhythm from the kiss, starts stroking him properly. He would have liked to continue his bath, yet can't lie to himself and say that drinking Ross' muted murmurs of enjoyment whilst bearing the shift and rush of water sluicing around Smith's hand isn't an extremely worthwhile distraction.

"Since this was Smith's idea," Trott murmurs thickly once sufficient softness has been committed to memory and ensures full eye contact is established with Ross, creating premonitions in the guise of sparks, as he adds, "take your clothes off and get in here."

"You say that like it's a punishment," Smith comments, withdrawing his hand and sloping a fiery gaze towards Ross, watching him remove his t-shirt, "like I'm not super into seeing you two together."

"You won't mind getting the lube from the mirror, then?" Whilst Trott's smirk is angled at Smith, he too is beholden to Ross' gradually exposed skin and follows Ross' hands undoing his belt with intimate darkness collecting in his irises.

"Obviously not." Though, Smith can't resist leaning into Ross when he half-turns away from the bath and dropping a kiss to his shoulder as a pitstop in his upwards journey. Whilst Ross' head twitches towards the touch, he is in the middle of getting his jeans off and, as such, does nothing further.

Removing his boxers is a little more difficult, given how inordinately turned on he is, but then he is levering himself into the bath, shivering as the temperate water rushes across his limbs, and slants a devilish grin at Trott when he shifts back slightly to allow him room. Space is limited, adding hesitancy where actions might usually be free-flowing, yet the effort is entirely worth it once Trott has braced forearms on the bath's edges, lifted his legs and bent them at Ross' sides because the melting together of fervent, aching skin washes synchronised moans through lungs contracted by pleasure. To begin with, Ross is mesmerised, studying the swirling arousal in Trott's eyes and resting their foreheads together, and only looks away when the overflow, protesting the body-to-water ratio, gurgles ominously.

"Might have to change position," Trott murmurs and, feeling that he should make the most of being able to, cups Ross' face in both hands, tracing smile lines with affectionate thumbs, "there's definitely not enough room for you to fuck me this way."

"Could probably do it over the side of the tub," Ross suggests, "if Smith is happy to support you from behind, that is."

Both look up at Smith's nearby enraptured stance, Ross raising his eyebrows and running a hot stare down to pool promises around Smith's arched, open fly, and Trott not bothering with concealment in regards to his taunting smirk. It is clear Smith hadn't heard Ross' proposition because he doesn't react to it, simply lowers to his knees, draws himself forwards using a hand on the bath, and hooks an immediately hungry kiss onto Ross' mouth.

"Christ," Trott hisses, enthralled by the act taking place in front of him and bearing a twitch against his lower stomach which tells him exactly how Ross feels about it. Unable to help himself, he submerges a hand, coils wanton fingers around warmth, and smirks when this has the desired effect of a moan rolling its way up Ross' throat to stain Smith's mouth.

"God, that's so hot," Smith murmurs earnestly and leans back, "where did you want me, again?"

"Stay there a sec," Trott instructs and looks down, figuring out the easiest route whilst not kicking anywhere delicate.

"Need help?" Ross slides hands under Trott's thighs, skimming them upwards to imply potential assistance.

"Uh, yeah, actually," a taunt unravels along Trott's mouth, "if you think you can lift me."

"Guess we'll find out," Ross grins back, leaning closer and making it easier for Trott to loop an arm around his shoulders. Somehow, perhaps facilitated by the water, he manages to pull him towards his lap and turn, settling him on the edge of the bath without causing injury. In hindsight, it could have gone a whole lot worse, and Smith quickly reaching out to steady Trott's hips definitely helped.

"Wow," Trott snorts, tilting and supporting his back on Smith's chest, "went better than I expected."

"Genuinely thought I was gonna drop you," Ross chuckles but then gets distracted; Smith's hands slide across Trott's stomach, catching minute quivers, and when Ross glances up his breath gets stuck in his throat thanks to Smith's incendiary stare pointing at him through lidded eyes. "You good there, Smith?" He asks with facsimile coyness.

"Oh," Smith grins and conjures goosebumps where his mouth brushes Trott's trap, "yeah, I'm really good." Turning his head, following the line of Trott's throat with his nose, he skims one hand down, smudges pleasure into feverish skin - provoking a jolt in his hips that Ross feels as well as sees - and adds, "really, really good," in a deliciously low timbre.

"Hh- fuck," a flicker passes across Trott's features, briefly closing his eyes and parting his lips, until grounding clarity is drawn out beneath the hand he clasps to Ross' shoulder and allows him to open them again, "Ross, hurry up and stick your fingers in me, mate? I'm getting a bit desperate."

"Alright, Christ," Ross exhales a laugh, "where's the- oh," without him finishing his query, Smith has already lifted the hand not currently gliding a slow path along Trott, holding the lube out for him. "Thanks," he smirks, taking it, and shares an indecent look with Smith past Trott's shoulder.

"Welcome," Smith's response is murmured, still obstructed by Trott's skin, but his eyes follow Ross' every move, gaining a gradually rising anticipation within his veins whilst tracking applied slipperiness and occasionally lingering on shifting arm muscles. He isn't disappointed when Ross doesn't meet him, when he speaks carefully to Trott and applies full focus to coyly preparing him; watching them like this, curling intimate jokes within cautious check-ins, always elicits promising sparks in his bloodstream and simply being close by is enough to satisfy any yearning which dares fill his thoughts.

Ross more than makes up for it once Trott's thighs have been lifted and he has slid between their illicit bow, bracing his hands on the bath's edge and leaning close enough that he can easily understand Smith tilting his head up as an invitation. Bearing the weight of Trott's shoulder blades digging into his chest, eclipsing Ross' hands with his own, Smith hums eagerness along the parting seam of Ross' lips until a tiny wavering movement shifts against his stomach, denoting Trott moving, and Ross slips away on the wings of a moan.

In the background of collecting intense, intrusive pressure where his body connects to Ross' or tipping his head back when Smith's fingers travel well-worn - yet by no means dulled - pathways along heightened nerve endings, Trott is aware his stability is precarious; hinging on Smith's chest keeping his back steady and his arm or legs wrapped around Ross. He was already wet thanks to the bath and now, with sweat gathering under his hands or sticking him to Smith, he is practically sliding everywhere which, whilst it isn't necessarily a bad thing, isn't particularly helpful at present.

"Fucking-," he sighs, exasperated and too on edge to be otherwise, and taps Ross' shoulder with barely moving fingers, "stop a sec, I feel like I'm gonna fall off any second.

"Okay, uh," Ross blinks away some of the foggy pleasure clouding his judgement and pauses, despite how annoying his libido finds it, "where d'you wanna go instead?"

"If we-," Trott sucks on his teeth and tries to focus on anything that isn't the tension of Ross' dick inside him.

"Could always drain some of the water," Smith suggests, resting his chin on Trott's shoulder, "I reckon there's enough room for Ross to sort-of lie down, if you're happy riding him."

"Yeah, but," it's hard for Trott to turn, to find Smith's eyes, and settles on a vague impression in his periphery, "what about you?"

"I mean, I can ride him instead if you want," it is clear from the curve that Smith's grin brands on Trott's skin that this is meant as a joke, one that makes Trott direct a withering smirk at Ross, but Smith continues, "no, seriously though, I meant what I said: I'm happy watching. Plus," the grin comes back in full force, "I'm sure you'll make it up to me."

"...Alright, fine," Trott sighs, not really wanting to argue right now when he has better things to worry about, and lightly squeezes his muscles around Ross to grab his attention, "Ross?

"Fuck," Ross crackles before sensation fades enough for a proper response, at which point he flicks a simmering glance at Trott's grin and resists the urge to thrust forwards, "yeah, sure. I'm not gonna complain, am I?" Carefully pulling out whilst keeping supporting hands on Trott's thighs is a little tricky, especially when his eyes flicker beneath small waves of pleasure, but once Trott is perched on the edge of the bath with Smith's arms around his waist, he is free to tilt and turn the plug release. Which, he is bemused to note, is perfectly framed by Trott's calves and therefore gives him a good reason to kiss his knee as he reaches for it.

"Alright, I think that's enough," Trott murmurs once only his ankles are submerged and gathers incendiary sparks on the smirk he points at Ross, "lie down, mate."

"Like telling me what to do?" Ross quips but turns, settling into a recline with his back against the end of the tub; waiting for Trott to join him with barely any patience left.

"Depends," Trott replies airily, carefully drawing Smith's arms away, and slowly slides into the bath. It's a tight fit for his knees either side of Ross' hips, but he pauses, waiting for Ross to rearrange himself, and suppresses a shiver when the cooling water washes around his legs. Ross sits up a little, pressing guidance into his lower back with a gentle hand and reaching down to align his tip to Trott's entrance when Trott lowers enough.

"On what?" He manages to press, rubbing against Trott and accumulating a steady trickle of pleasure along his length.

"On whether you like it," Trott sways downwards, drawing Ross into himself, and swallows a moan to add, thicker than before, "when I tell you what to do."

"Fuck," Ross exhales unconsciously, his eyes flicker whilst cohesion returns from where sprightly sensation threw it, and then his mouth tilts off-centre around, "why don't you try it and find out?"

"Come on, Ross," Trott rumbles and leans in, bracing hands on Ross' shoulders, "fuck me hard like a good boy."

"Christ," This is Smith, watching events unfold and tentatively relieving the taut frustration beneath his boxers with his hand, and splits into a wry grin when twinned bemusement tilts towards him, "what? That's hot shit and you know it."

"He's right," wrapping an arm around Trott, seamlessly sewing its swell into the dip of his lower back, Ross tips close enough to haunt Trott's lips with promises of his own and effortlessly shunts his hips forwards - an act facilitated by the slippery porcelain beneath him - to buck sharp pleasure past Trott's tailbone. "You always look so hot fucking- taking it."

"Oh my god," Trott loses grip on reality a little, his hands slipping on Ross' shoulders thanks to shuddering, early euphoria, and closes his eyes as it all washes over him, resting his forehead on Ross' for stability. Any control he contained previously is gone now, sending his hips back and forth without instruction beyond impulse and working warm, fluttering moans all the way up his core, past his stomach, through his throat until they emerge to stain Ross' cheek. He loves this, loves the intrusive intensity of it and the shiver of Ross' atoms rubbing against his own; the inescapable storm crackling ecstasy across their bones and dousing their skin in desperation. More than those elements combined, however, he adores the heat, eagerness and enthusiasm he sees pooling in Ross' eyes when he opens his own to see it.

"Good?" Ross asks in a deliciously resonant tone.

"Fuck yeah," Trott exhales shakily and circles his hips, tensing intermittently wavering muscles around Ross to force a gruff moan out of his chest.

"God," Ross' fingers dig into Trott's hip and thigh, absorbing clarity from the dimples they create until enough has been garnered to allow him turning his head, addressing Smith, "you doing okay, Smith?"

"Oh, absolutely," Smith smirks, the rapid shifts of his arm denoting his solitary satisfaction, and breaks into a luxurious grin when his next words are too tantalising to resist, "don't worry about me; get stuck in."

"Yeah, go on, Ross," Trott adds breathlessly and laboriously moves his legs, extending them enough that they can loosely encompass Ross' hips and provide leverage, "fucking give it to me."

"Fuck it," Ross huffs. His hands slide onto the uppermost curve of Trott's thighs, fingers digging into and pulling at him, whilst his face buries itself in that wonderfully scented slope where Trott's shoulder veers off towards his neck. With his racing pulse acting as a metronome, he conducts a dizzying rhythm between sliding, bucking hips and grabbing, pushing hands; receives melodic moans in his ear direct from Trott's mouth and feels them vibrate through their connected extremities like thunder. In the background of clawing himself closer and closer to an ending he needs like his lungs need oxygen, he is faintly aware that Trott's hands are clasped over his own, holding him in place, and that the limiting space in the bath is detrimental to his sprawl, yet these inputs are ephemeral, phantasmal, and barely scratch the surface of his buzzing thoughts.

Having given up on supporting his weight on the bath, Smith is now seated on the floor, watching over its rim instead. The sight of Ross throwing his effort into the act is astonishingly vivid, painting his insides in the glowing hues of wildfires; flashy, burning flames that only grow and consume his veins beneath the increasingly slick strokes he is applying to himself. He believes there is nothing more exhilarating or otherworldly than watching the two people he loves most collide in this way, until Trott turns his head, smears their equally inky gazes together, and unspools a truly hedonistic grin across flushed, sweat-shiny cheeks.

"Fuck, Ross," he croaks, holding unbreakable eye contact with Smith, "feels so fucking good," And tilts back, lifting his legs with the intent to notch heels into Ross' hips. He does manage this, but just about because as he moves, as the angle shifts, the shockwave Ross' next thrust bumps behind his stomach hits him much harder than anticipated and blots stars in a vignette around his vision. "Oh- shit," suddenly, the pretence he had been portraying for Smith's benefit becomes real, sending his senses into a dizzying free fall he cannot hope to stop, "fuck, fuck- Ross,"

"Fuck me," Smith murmurs as the shivers running rampant across Trott's body start puppeteering his own.

"Hh- Trott," Ross' muffled voice chimes in, ragged and enthralled, until he straightens, grins messily in Trott's face and snakes a hand between them, making what was already a quickening approach into a landslide, "that's it, come on; come for us."

"Fuck," as it tumbles down Trott's spine, as it removes any chances his lungs have of breathing correctly, Ross becomes a precipice keeping him grounded and bears his erratic, flinching rhythm as unmitigated euphoria fills up every crack in his existence.

Ross is entranced by it, drawing a loving gaze across luminescent edges and feeling a significant yank behind his stomach in response. This isn't unexpected; Trott is a mess of intermittent tension and impulsively swaying hips, and nothing - absolutely nothing - compares to seeing all the ways ecstasy lays waste to his form. Nothing, that is, except what greets him when a sharp, crackling huff expels from Smith's mouth, tugs his attention around, and he gets to watch his partially hidden reckoning take place as well.

"Hh- god," he keens, almost melting entirely, but then there are hands catching his wrists in recovered strength, his eyes flick back to Trott - to his dizzy grin - and like dancers they tilt. As Trott goes forwards, he goes back; his spine settles against the bath, Trott rolls and settles further anticipation under his skin.

"That's it, Ross," Trott murmurs.

"Here," Smith shuffles sideways, takes Ross' wrist from Trott and, after ensuring eye contact is strong enough, leads Ross' fingers into his mouth. This is a practiced act, a familiar act; an act he knows, and can see unfolding in Ross' eyes, as being one Ross particularly likes.

"Oh my god," Ross babbles and, when Smith's tongue cups his fingertips in synchronicity with Trott tensing around him, "oh, holy shit-," bends in on himself, fettering shaky limbs to his compliant partners whilst everything around him fades into nondescript white noise.

Tightly wound inertia slowly unravels in relative quiet, the sort where only harshly recovered breaths echo off the tiles or borderline icy water crackles around legs trying to remember movement. Trott is first to force some sort of separation, threading fingers into Ross' hair to guide his head up from where it ended up on his shoulder. When enough room has been granted, he eases himself up, almost over-balances once upright, and gets caught by Smith, who noticed him about to fall from where he was resting on the edge of the tub.

"Thanks," Trott snorts, settling hands on Smith's arms and allowing an act of assistance he wouldn't ordinarily let Smith have simply because he lacks the energy to protest properly.

"Don't thank me yet," Smith replies lazily, yet at least waits until Trott's feet are on the floor before ducking down, leaning into him and kissing him deeply enough that Trott can't help tipping backwards a little or throwing both arms around his shoulders to stop himself dropping completely.

The energy Ross would need to do anything except twist and rest folded arms on the bath isn't present in his veins yet, so he contents himself with smiling softly at Trott loosely shoving Smith's head to try and detach his now laugh-tainted kissing. Eventually, he gives up, submits himself to Smith's over-affectionate neck nuzzling, and tips a wry smirk towards Ross which he shares, knowing it to mean how much they both actually enjoy it when Smith is like this. Like any halcyon moment, however, this one must break and Ross already knows the nature of its destruction thanks to Trott's face contorting oddly.

"Ease off, Smith," he murmurs, ghosting light fingers down Smith's spine.

"Alright," Smith releases him, though not without brushing a kiss underneath his jaw, and has a dazed expression when he straightens.

"Cool, now both of you fuck off," Trott grins sunnily, "you're not staying here and watching me clean up."

"Spoilsport," Smith winks but waltzes for the door and eases it open anyway, only pausing to catch Ross' eye over his shoulder, "Ross?"

"Yeah, two seconds," Ross sighs, tips his head onto his arms and draws in a few, slow breaths, receiving middling strength on each inhale. When he lifts up again, juxtaposing displays of affection are directed towards him; Trott's mild yet undeniably fond smile and Smith's considerably more obvious half-grin in the same key. "What?" He posits whilst laboriously climbing out of the bath.

"You're adorable," Is what Smith offers, murmured and sweet.

"Yeah, what he said," Is Trott's version, which gains him a side-step and elbow nudge from Ross.

"Love you both, too," He chuckles and easily slips his hand into the one Smith offers him, saying a light, "don't take too long, yeah," to Trott as they walk over the bathroom threshold.

Notes: Because one day I sat down and said to myself, who is gonna write a YouTuber RPF sex pollen fic if not me? This is embarrassingly one of my most rehashed and edited fics. Do I know why? Nope. This was first written in 2024 and, like the other 1-2 million words I've written about these fuckers in the last three years, wasn't posted anywhere. But, I'm leaving Tumblr, so this (and another which will follow in due course) is essentially me saying "fuck it" and posting it anyway.

Let's get on with the show.

-----

"Hi," Ross greets, wedging his phone between shoulder and ear so he can continue unpacking groceries.

"If I came to you and said I really need your help with something," Smith replies in a blur, making Ross pause with his hand halfway to the fridge door, "where would you draw the line?"

"Um," bemusement tugs Ross' mouth into a quizzical curl, "hello to you too, mate." He intuits that maybe he shouldn't be having whatever this conversation is whilst distracted and turns, leaning against the counters and bringing his hand up to hold his phone properly. "Murder, maybe? Or large-scale arson," he smirks then, "setting someone's shed on fire is probably as big as I'd go."

"Right," Smith falls silent for a second that drags, "well, I mean, it's not murder, or uh... Large-scale arson."

"Okay," Ross frowns. Smith hasn't stopped being serious and now he's starting to worry; rare are the times when they actually call each other, as opposed to texting, and usually he would crack a joke. Instead, he sounds almost... Miserable. "Everything alright? Do I need to help you bury a body?"

"God, no," a sigh hisses through the receiver, drenching Ross in a concerned chill, "nothing like that, it's... Actually, never mind, it's not that important."

"Yeah, sure, sounds it," Ross snarks, though rubs anxiously at the back of his neck, "I'm not gonna listen to you moping and not offer to help. What's up?"

"Okay," Smith takes a deep breath, "okay, well. You've got to promise not to laugh; I'm being completely serious."

"No shit," Ross smirks and, when it isn't met with matching humour, hurriedly adds, "sorry, go on. I promise not to laugh."

Silence closes in and the pressure it begets pushes down on Ross' limbs with so much force that he shoves himself away from the counters, pacing to shake it off. He knows Smith is still there from his movements brushing the receiver and the occasional whispers of his breathing, and can't remember a time when he has known him to be so cut up about something, or if he ever has been.

"So, you know how after that meteor hit Utah, people have magic and shit," is what Smith eventually rambles down the phone and Ross, who hadn't been expecting this tangent, ends up blinking at the floor in surprise.

"Yeah?" Not that Ross has met anyone with it. Or, at least, not fully-fledged. They all found it incredibly funny when Trott woke up one morning with the ability to alter any sound's frequency and spent most of that afternoon talking in high-pitched voices, but otherwise, the sort of powers that had been witnessed overseas are yet to be seen first-hand.

"I might have been cursed," Smith says steadily.

"Might have," Ross repeats.

"Okay, I have been," Smith swallows and Ross hears it click, "I don't think it was meant for me specifically; I was just in range of the guy it actually got chucked at. This couple was having an argument in the middle of the street, she threw, like, pink ball lightning at him? And I was like-,"

"Cursed like how?" Ross interrupts, not needing the full story. Immediately, his imagination jumps to a number of wild conclusions, "have you been turned into a frog?"

"Mate, if I was a frog, how would I be using the phone?" A very small hint of amusement flickers into Smith's voice, only to drop away a second later, "I wish I was a frog, honestly."

"Okay, so, what is it?" Ross starts wandering through his flat with no destination in mind and ends up at his balcony doors. Outside, summer is in full force, painting the sky in an homage to the ocean and draping emerald finery on the trees. The curse clearly isn't weather-related or, if it is, it's extremely localised. "If you're not suddenly craving flies, I mean," he says to Smith's continued silence.

"Yeah, alright, very funny," Smith snorts, "you've got to swear not to laugh, Ross. Like, on your life, or something. I mean it." And then, after a split-second of further thought, "and don't tell Trott."

"Shit," Ross lets out a low whistle, "must be bad then." When this is met with more eerie quiet, he shrugs, despite knowing that Smith can't see him, "yeah, I promise not to laugh or tell Trott."

"I've been uh," another slow breath uncurls through the ether, "sex cursed."

Not laughing becomes impossible. Aware that he won't be able to stop himself otherwise, Ross pulls his lips into his mouth, bites the would-be smirk threatening to twist them, and closes his eyes, hoping that darkness might staunch the flow of disbelief in his veins. He counts backwards from ten.

"You said you wouldn't laugh," Smith reminds him dryly before he reaches three.

"I'm not," Ross exhales and rolls on the balcony door, casting a pleading glance up at the ceiling, "I'm not laughing." His chest is almost bursting with how much laughter he isn't expelling, in fact. "Are you sure that's what it is?"

"Either that, or I really need to go to hospital," Smith replies and a crackle of reception tells Ross he has brought a hand up to habitually pick his stubble, "I've been on fucking Reddit all morning trying to find anything else it could be and, yeah, no, it's definitely that."

"Wait, hang on," the smirk tries to resurface and Ross tousles his hair to dispel it, "this might be a weird question, but how d'you know it's not something else?"

"Because I've had a sodding stiffy all day," despite how odd this is to bring up, Smith says it with surprising ease and this startles Ross far more than the actual topic.

What isn't particularly helpful is his visual mind, which leaps on Smith's comment like lions on antelope and leaves him standing, his lip between his teeth and eyes leveled at the floor, whilst imagining what he looks like right now. There are specific details which carry more blur than others, having no real-world basis to build on, but Smith has been around him in only boxers before - Ross, likewise, has been in similar states of undress around Smith - and details like attractively sharp collarbones, deft fingers, long legs and broad shoulders can be imagined in startling definition. This... Isn't great. Here he was thinking he was well rid of the ersatz, fleeting crush which plagued him when they first met; turns out he hadn't killed it, it was just lying dormant beneath the surface of his thoughts waiting for a tectonic shift to cause an eruption. Shit.

"Right," he says, extremely glad that the aroused clench of his throat hasn't stuck to his voice, "you've tried wanking, I take it?"

"Yeah, that does sweet fuck all," Smith sighs, "it goes away for, like, five minutes and comes back again."

"What," Ross already knows - with fire awakening under his skin - what is coming. Of course, it does nothing to calm his imagination down, but pairing why Smith called him with this new information can only add up to one conclusion, "what did Reddit say?"

"Ross," Smith's smirk catches his voice, "I know you've worked it out, mate, you're not an idiot."

"Shit," Ross chews his cheek, "why aren't you calling an ex?"

"You really think any of them would sleep with me again?" Smith replies bitterly, "you're the only option I have that isn't illegal. Take that how you want. It's nothing weird, I promise, I just... I dunno, trust you, I guess."

"That's fair," Ross wouldn't usually be so honest, yet the situation has removed any self-preservation which might hinder speaking in earnest and, as such, the only hesitation he has is figuring out the best way to word it, "I'd probably ask you, if it was me." He doesn't mention that, regardless of how readily he does or doesn't accept it, he has always been a little attracted to Smith; some things are probably best kept to himself.

"Wait, are you actually saying yes?" Instead of hope, all Ross hears in Smith's voice is disbelief and for a single, horrible second he fears this has all been some sort of wind-up.

"Uh. Sure?" He says carefully.

"Oh," Smith chokes as if the agreement is strangling him, "right, okay. Thanks, I um... Do you want to come up here, or d'you want me to-,"

"Probably easier if I come to you," Ross' mind, as childish as it is in moments of anxiety, keeps giggling at the word 'come' and he really wishes it wouldn't, "give me ten minutes to shower first, though?"

"Yeah, yeah of course," there is a pause, as living and bright as lightning, and then, "thanks, Ross. I mean it."

"Hey, if we can't save each other from sex curses, what's the point of being friends?" Ross jokes and prays it doesn't sound as hollow as his nervously empty chest. Thankfully, Smith exhales a true laugh and Ross feels relief like all of his insides have come back again, "see you in a bit, mate."

"See you in ten," Smith's smile illuminates his tone and reaches through the phone to touch Ross' ribs, giving them a glow that doesn't recede even when Smith hangs up.

"Shit," he says to the quiet room and then, whilst pressing the heel of his hand to his head, "shit!" For Smith's sake and, more importantly, for the sake of their friendship, he is going to have to push any lingering emotions so far down they can't dream of being a problem. As he chucks his phone on the sofa and heads for the bathroom, all he thinks is: fucking Utah.

Between ending the call and Ross arriving, Smith doesn't move from sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands and an extremely persistent problem between his legs. Embarrassing doesn't quite cover the bristling, unshakeable mortification spread across his skin with all the thickness and clinginess of honey; a feeling that is only exacerbated by the invitation he offered when desperation forced his hand. The irony of it is undoubtedly cruel because he imagined himself capable of suppressing those wild bouts of longing which afflict him in Ross' presence. Reluctantly, he must accept that the age-old attraction he passes off as inconsequential is exactly what made him reach out to Ross rather than anyone else who could easily have sex with him.

A knock taps out on his front door and an irrational sense for drama makes Smith feel as though the sound resonates through his flat until it hits him square in the chest. He doesn't lift his head, simply curses under his breath and announces that the door is open in a clearer voice clear than his thoughts. Only when the click and release of the latch is followed by hesitant footsteps is his head brought up and, even then, the only expression he can manage to throw at Ross is an apologetic grimace.

"Can I?" Ross asks plainly, gesturing to the bed.

"Yeah sure, why not," Smith shrugs and remains hunched, his arms resting on his knees, as Ross sits down beside him. Seeing him in a t-shirt and shorts with the implied future hanging in the air is probably bad enough without his rather obvious problem being involved; it isn't much, but Smith wants to give Ross time to adjust.

Without warning or gentleness, the first thing that strikes Ross as he broaches the tense humidity filling Smith's bedroom is the scent radiating off every surface. It is reminiscent of locker rooms and, of all things, doing PE as a teenager, until a correction is made and he comprehends that unplaceable, almost earthy haze as sex. Or, more accurately, something that comes hand-in-hand with such an activity. It sticks to his senses like glue, staining his throat and raising the hair on his nape, and paints the gallery of his mind with images so debauched they appear garish.

"How're you," he starts and hits a wall when Smith tilts his head to meet his eyes, "doing?"

"I've definitely been better," Smith smirks and then, frowning at the collar of Ross' shirt, "are you wearing aftershave?"

"Felt appropriate," Ross explains, watching Smith's face for his reaction, "is that weird?"

"Fuck knows," the laugh that slips out of Smith's chest lacks any sort of humour and preludes him turning away again, one of his hands coming up to cup his eyes, "it's not like we've ever done this before."

"I can go, if you've changed your mind," Ross posits - ignoring the annoyingly loud parts of his consciousness that argue - and tangles his hands between his knees when they ache to reach out.

"No, don't it's," a truly wretched sigh shudders through Smith's entire body, "not that it's an amazing source of information, but Reddit implied that if I don't do something about it, the curse might kill me."

"Fuck, well," in an attempt at breaking through some of the ice gathered around Smith's form, Ross tips sideways and bumps their shoulders together, "as funny as that would be, we should probably try and stop that happening."

Smith sits up so abruptly that an unconscious flinch jolts Ross away, but as soon as their eyes meet and the future becomes clear between them, so does the ridiculousness of the situation. Matching, disbelieving grins spread across their cheeks, Ross bites his smirk, Smith draws in a wavering inhale and their dams crack simultaneously, spilling giddy laughter out to dispel the stagnant air. Neither of them could know that it would shift off-kilter again so quickly - if they did, perhaps they might have avoided it - but when Smith leans back on one hand, running the other through his hair, Ross glances down at his mouth and then, without thinking about it, to the front of his shorts. Up until that moment, he hadn't exactly forgotten why he is sitting on Smith's bed, yet seeing a distinct outline in faded grey strikes him like a brick to the head and, all at once, reality sets in where oxygen used to be.

"Nn," it isn't speech, is barely a word, but the scrape of it in Ross' throat takes Smith's obscuring hand away and pulls his gaze to Ross' stare anyway.

"My uh," Smith's lip twitches with anxious humour, "my eyes are up here, mate."

"Shit," Ross' horrified expression flicks back up to Smith's mildly amused one, "sorry, just... Surprised me."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Smith smirks and the knot in his chest loosens when Ross laughs softly, "how d'you wanna do this, by the way? I realise this is probably worse for you." Admitting this stabs him, welling up sour pain in his gullet, but he swallows it, "so I'm happy to do whatever."

"Does Reddit specify what kind of sex or-," meeting Smith's eyes again turns Ross' mouth into a desert and his tongue into lead, "can I just give you a hand job?"

It is incredibly difficult for Smith to be pragmatic; his stupid libido is agreeing emphatically to this option and raising imaginary sensations on his skin like goosebumps. All he does for a few seconds is bore his gaze into Ross' and wrestle with desire until, eventually, he tells himself that deliberating isn't going to make what's about to happen better or worse. Without speaking, wearing a resigned smirk, he holds out a hand palm-up to accept Ross' wrist and, when it fits into his grasp with an ease that burns, tries not to think about Ross' obedience as he guides his hand towards his lap. As keyed up as he is, his body embarrasses him by heaving a betraying twitch towards Ross' fingers, causing him to clench his jaw.

"I do know what I'm doing," Ross' small laugh falls flat, "but if you don't like something-,"

"Oh, trust me," Smith hopes, prays, that his smile is reassuring, "I'll let you know."

"Okay, good," Ross levels his focus at his hand and lowers it a fraction before panic comes through as hesitation, throwing a worried frown up at Smith's face, "do you want me to kiss you or would that be-,"

"I think," diverting his instincts against the welcoming warmth of Ross' hand mere millimetres away from touching him, Smith swallows thickly and hates that his eyes flick to Ross' mouth of their own accord, "no? It feels unnecessary, right?"

"Sure," Ross nods, drops his eyes again, "suits me," and cups his hand over a firm, human heat that immediately unspools frustrating delight along his arm. What hinders him - or encourages, his mind argues - is the sharp intake of breath which hisses through Smith's teeth as soon as he makes contact, and the soft, muted pulse of sound that follows it. A sound which, no matter how much he tries to tell himself otherwise, Ross knows is a suppressed moan.

Slowly but steadily, pressure is applied. Cautious touches gradually flow into tentative strokes and then, when Smith's hips respond appropriately, lead into an ambitious thumb circling or pressing on an evocatively dampened ridge. Ross can't bear to tear his eyes away from watching his hand, regardless of a tell-tale prickle on his cheek where Smith is fixated on his face. To meet him would be dangerous; a simple act, sure, but one riddled with implications he would rather avoid.

This carries on for a few minutes, with Ross laboriously learning which touches and angles garner the most favourable results, and Smith twisting the sheets at his sides, anchoring himself to a reality his impulses are trying to keelhaul him away from. As much as he desperately wishes that this would be enough, that somehow being hesitantly fondled through clothing might provide a release fighting to come out of him, it isn't and is, in fact, very frustrating.

"Uh, Ross," he murmurs, placing fingertips on Ross' hand.

"What?" Ross replies calmly and finally lets himself find Smith's eyes, believing that it is necessary at present, "want me to stop?"

"No, don't stop, I mean, it's," Smith pauses on the edge of honesty and sharply snaps at himself to stop being so scared, it's just Ross, for fuck's sake; they've been through far worse, "it's good, but I can barely feel anything through, y'know," he plucks the leg of his shorts with illustrative purpose.

"Oh, right," Ross transforms his consternation into relief and laughs, "want me to do the honours?"

"Um, no, I can do it, but," of all the things for Smith to find funny, he didn't anticipate it being this and has to briefly look away to push down his amusement. "The question is, can you see my dick without it being weird."

"And touching it is so normal," Ross snarks and almost regrets it before Smith's gaze slopes towards him, showing vicarious humour in his eyes.

"Cool, well," Smith's grin sharpens, he tilts his head towards Ross' and, for a split second, Ross is consumed by the altogether delicious precognition that Smith is about to kiss him. Instead, he simply says, "don't say I didn't warn you," and turns away to wriggle out of the garment.

The small mercy of being completely distracted by Smith not wearing boxers under the shorts means Ross' disappointed expression flashes across his eyes rather than getting stuck there. He looks at Smith; at the pale curves of his thighs, at the cornices of hip bones framing muted auburn stomach hair and, unable to stop himself if he tried, his dick, too. It seems reductive to liken his hesitancy to if he had never seen a dick before - after all, he does own one - and Ross can only rationalise his ceased thoughts as being caused by whose dick it is. With the slow drag of sunset, he draws his gaze up past Smith's t-shirt, almost gets stuck on the bob of his throat, and finds Smith watching him with a smirk which, to Ross' confused mind, could be classed as shy.

"Hang on," Ross says and internally chastises himself for sounding quite so eager before pulling himself away from the cuts of uncertainty in Smith's oceanic irises, unfastening a few shirt buttons, and tugging the whole thing over his head. To Smith's quizzical frown, he shrugs, "might as well both be a bit naked."

"Whatever works for you," Smith replies, definitely not forcing himself to look anywhere but at Ross' exceptionally attractive chest hair, and leans back on his hands again. There is a torrent of adrenaline coursing through his veins, one that rushes and peaks when Ross glides a steady hand over him, and instead of letting his gaze linger where it wants to - namely, on Ross' face a few inches from his own - he staunchly stares at the wardrobe opposite. Light fingertips brush all the way down his length and back up, the heel of Ross' palm rolls around his tip; both combine under his skin as a ripple of pure pleasure and blanch his mind to the point that he has no way of anticipating the shiver it coaxes.

"Is that-," Ross starts, having felt it throughout his bones.

"Yeah, god that's- fuck, do that again," Smith murmurs and allows his eyes to close, believing that he should probably stop staring.

"Like," Ross repeats his actions and adds a gentle squeeze, ghosting a thumbprint against Smith's slit, "like that?"

"Oh my god," there are no thoughts behind the hand Smith lifts to Ross' shoulder and an equal lack of inhibitions leading it to stop at the base of his neck. In fact, though he wouldn't admit it out loud, the warmth of Ross' skin filling his palm only hastens the debilitating surf approaching his shores. "Yeah- fuck," he can't think, can't breathe; can't stop jerking his hips towards Ross' increasing touches as though he knows no other movement.

Ross knows he shouldn't be staring at Smith quite as hungrily as he is but, no matter how much animosity he throws at himself, it's like he is the tide and Smith is the enigmatic moonlight. Flicking his eyes between the flushed, yielding impression of his fingers around Smith's dick, and all the tiny flinches his facial features pair amicably with his shallow, keening gasps, he isn't cognisant enough to call himself mesmerised but believes he might be addicted. He knows then that he could spend hours doing this, tentatively learning all the secret ways Smith likes to be touched,  tuning in to the altogether arousing effects each brush of his fingers has on Smith's entire body; hearing his sighs harmonise with the unending melody his libido sings in response. Trying not to be monotonous yet equally conscious that being too encouraging or acting with too much ease might give away how much he is enjoying this particular act, he follows patterns he constructed on himself during solitary satisfaction. It's fully giving rather than taking, submitting himself to the art of making Smith feel good without caring about his own pleasure, and the implied trust of Smith calling him - rather than anyone else - causes something deep within his chest to soar.

Unfortunately, like all good things, this one has an ending creeping over the horizon. It doesn't take a genius to understand the sudden rigidity of Smith's fingers on his neck, nor the harsh timbre of his exhales, and it takes every ounce of his willpower to not moan when he comprehends what's about to happen.

"Oh fuck, oh- fuck," Smith gasps, beginning to curl in on himself, "fuck, fuck, fuck." Swearing is the only thing that stops him from saying Ross' name, as close to the tip of his tongue as it is. At the very last second, right before inertia overwhelms him, he makes a critical mistake: he turns his head and inadvertently crashes his gaze right into Ross'. All at once, the very thing he had been trying desperately to ignore swims upstream in his blood, reminding him exactly why he asked Ross to do this; why he looks into his eyes and feels the earth spin. Uncoordinated and obliterated, he comes with Ross' name trying to force itself up his throat and Ross' mouth blurring at the edge of his vision, knowing, with what little amount of awareness he has left, that it was a brief insight into reciprocation which decimated him.

Withdrawing his touch once Smith's aftershocks have faded, Ross becomes conscious of his accidental lean into Smith's space and straightens. The distraction of innate slipperiness on his hand is a welcome one, giving his restless mind something to latch on to as he searches the immediate vicinity for anything to wipe it with. Smith's hand falls away from his neck and he pretends not to notice, though there is an imprint on his skin in its wake and a scent he really shouldn't find so titillating swirling in his senses.

"Here," Smith murmurs and removes his t-shirt, handing it over.

"Sure?" Ross asks carefully, takes it when Smith shrugs, and busies himself with cleaning his hand when every thriving atom which composes his being yearns to look where he knows he really shouldn't.

The aftermath is tense, suffocatingly so, like the drenching humidity before a storm. Needing to steady himself, Ross rests his arms on his knees, loosely tips his hand to pass Smith's t-shirt back to him, and runs his tongue over his teeth. Whilst a myriad of confusing questions run rampant around his skull, there is one thing he is blisteringly aware of: he is hard. Rationally, this is to be expected; irrationally, he wishes it wasn't true and he could go on acting as though what just occurred was purely in aid of breaking Smith's unfortunate curse.

"How do we know if it worked?" He asks eventually, levelling his eyes at the floor instead of allowing them to slope towards Smith.

"We've gotta wait," is the quiet response.

Ross tells himself it's because of what he perceives to be awkwardness filling the musty air. In reality, it's because Smith is struggling to grasp how on earth they will be able to try again when a simple hand job brought him too close to undoing all the work he put in suppressing that one crush that never went away.

He takes a risk and looks at Ross. In the same instant, as if guided by an ineffable higher power, Ross inclines his head to look at him. A thousand stars burst at the corners of their locked eyes, spelling out synchronised desires within their constellations, but neither have the courage to give name to their blinding light. Against all odds, Ross cracks into a dimple-framed half-grin and, feeling its effect as a rush of warmth down his spine, Smith returns his own crooked version.

"You're pretty good at that, mate," Smith quips.

"Thanks," Ross sits up, stretches his arms out and lets them flop into his lap, "I don't know if you know this, but I do have a dick, myself."

"What?" Mock surprise dapples Smith's eyes, "you mean you don't just have empty space down there?" Saying this, he flicks his gaze down, hoping to emphasise the joke, until doing so illuminates the shape pressing against the front of Ross' jeans and a startled spasm of his throat throws, "oh," out into the open.

"Yeah, uh," Ross laughs awkwardly and proceeds to lie through his teeth, "don't flatter yourself; it's nothing personal, I promise." Acting in total opposition to his own prerogative, his glance slides over Smith's nudity, sending a fizzle of unwelcome attraction into his blood, and stops where the curse has definitely not been lifted. In that moment, staring at flushed, shiny skin, he wants only to reach out and replace his hand; to reignite shivering flames in his palm and make Smith come all over again. Instead, he controls his voice and says, "I'm guessing that's not, either."

"For fuck's sake," Smith sighs and crushes any remnants of humour beneath the hand he presses to his eyes, "okay. Handies don't work. Noted."

"Sorry," Ross offers, "so," if he hadn't been bolstered by the unexpectedly easy atmosphere of a few seconds ago, he would never say what is forming on his tongue, yet here he is, letting it flow freely, "blowie?"

Sighing, Smith rolls his face on his hand and gives Ross a withering glare. Still, he can't deny the flutter of encouragement in his stomach upon seeing Ross' rueful smile, especially when there is a faint flush high on his cheeks and his eyes have been smudged by desire's shadowy fingerprints. To argue that he doesn't want to at least try would be pointless - and a total lie - and yet bringing himself to say this aloud is much harder than anticipated, meaning Ross clears his throat and tries to fill the silence.

"You know, maybe it's like," he avoids Smith's gaze, feeling that eye contact would detriment his ability to speak, "a hand job isn't that different from wanking," now he has started, however, getting the words to cease pouring from his mouth turns out to be impossible, "not that I want to suck you off, but maybe it has to be something you can't do on your own."

"Okay," Smith's smile is endlessly fond, cresting his eyes with gold, and is given the freedom to be that way by Ross not witnessing it. On the one hand, he is still slightly nervous about staring at Ross for too long to be appropriate yet, on the other, is grateful that it means he catches Ross turning before their eyes meet again and can twist devotion into playful mockery.

"What?" Ross twitches into a smirk.

"Worth a try, right?" Smith concedes and, suddenly feeling as though Ross' startled bemusement is an accelerant to his libido, smooths a self-conscious hand over his chest, following it with his gaze instead. "Should probably have some ground rules, though," he muses, "like, no offence," a leer is pointed at Ross for emphasis, "but no eye contact, maybe?"

"Right, yeah," a broken chuckle crackles in Ross' throat, "that'd be weird." Saying this, he slides off the bed and kneels on the floor though, as dizzying as his arousal is, he doesn't move; doesn't want to without express permission. Something washes over him like being doused in a bucket of sunlight and seems to spill heat out from between his ribs when he looks around at Smith. It strikes him then, in an incredibly overwhelming manner, that he has never seen Smith completely naked before and all at once every scenario he has ever dared to dream, when inhibitions are low enough to allow it, collide in his mind. He wants him. His tongue fizzles with what it might be like to lick each subtle curve, his hands tingle whilst imagining how easily their bodies might fit together if it was allowed; every sense is ignited and he wants Smith to encourage their burn, as reprehensible as that may be. And yet, here he is, asking to put Smith's dick in his mouth. Fuck.

"Hey, you alright?" Smith asks, having witnessed a plethora of frenetic changes in Ross' expression take place across a matter of seconds, "you don't have to do this; if I have to get arrested for soliciting, that's fine."

"I'm good," Ross taps knuckles to Smith's knee and tears himself away from getting lost in his eyes, "shift your legs, mate."

"You can't tell me what to do, mate," Smith snarks and receives a goading smirk in response. If it weren't for their position - with Ross kneeling between his thighs like a debauched supplicant - the ease of their chatter could be assumed to be as normal as their everyday back-and-forth.

"Looks like I can, actually," Ross returns, but his smirk falters as his hands slide up to Smith's sides, his eyes cast themselves down to notice how seamlessly his thumbs rest on the cusps of hip bones, and the sight of Smith's dick in the middle, much to his embarrassment, makes his mouth water a little. Remembering what they established as a rule is difficult when instincts want to check for Smith's reactions but, after taking a grounding breath in and hating that it arrives stained with Smith's scent, he puts calculated effort into moving his hands into place.

The first touch of heat against his lips hits him like a tidal wave and then, when he drags slickness onto his tongue, all the while bristling with the resonance of Smith's bitten-off moan, washes pure adrenaline over his skin. Desperate to detach himself from whose cock is twitching in his mouth, he closes his eyes and wills himself to tune out any sounds that might doom him. All he has to do is pretend it's anyone else - a stranger, even - anyone but the one person he now knows he has always wanted, even if he never let himself admit it before. It is, in a word, impossible. He tilts his head and Smith chokes back a moan; curling a hand around Smith to assist his mouth makes Smith's hips jerk towards him and a moan slips out before he can stop it. When he extends a thumb to lightly brush or cup a little lower, the bed creaks under Smith's tight hands and his thighs flinch, glancing off Ross' ribs.

Fuck it, Ross thinks harshly and opens his eyes.

Smith is watching him, his eyes lidded and mouth slightly parted by all the wonderful, airy huffs of pleasure which explore Ross' extremities like lightning. Believing that this is it, this is where they cross the line, Ross smooths his free hand up Smith's stomach and this time the moan he hums around him is deliberate.

"Fucking hell," Smith babbles and, equally wound up beyond the point of no return, doesn't dare consider consequences before reaching out a hand to skim shaky fingers onto Ross' shoulder. It is sinfully divine to watch his own arm rise and fall with Ross' head; to experience the uncoiling of inescapable heat in his stomach when he gives in to his most persistent desire and draws his hand up to Ross' nape. Even with its shape obscured by being otherwise occupied, he can see the lifted edges of Ross' smirk and its placement - specifically, around his dick - is unbearably erotic.

This is all rather confusing, however, because if he didn't know better he might assume Ross is savouring the moment and surely that can't be right. Smith can't say he isn't oblivious sometimes but, to give himself a little credit, the idea that the warmth he carries whenever Ross smiles at him is equally present in Ross doesn't fit in with what he perceived their relationship to be. Doubt rears up inside him then and convinces him he is simply imagining things, removing his hand from Ross' hair. After that, he keeps his eyes closed and won't give his stupid heart an audience when entertaining its hopeful beats might break him. Pretending it isn't Ross' mouth around him, Ross' tongue flicking against him, is insurmountably difficult when every subtle noise Ross makes arrives in his cadence, but he stays firm in his belief that acknowledging how enthralled he is would be trouble.

Gratitude mingles with the encroaching supernova somewhere beneath his stomach, and Smith lets starlight scour illicit pathways across his veins whilst subtly bouncing his hips towards a heat that melts him. Though Ross is frustratingly disappointed by the eye contact breaking, he pours all his focus into pouring himself onto Smith and deliberately doesn't think about how he feels, tastes, or sounds - warm, earthy; evocative - this close to the edge. So distanced are sensations from the person who causes them that when a cataclysmic jolt of Smith's stomach and a blunt gasp heralds warmth flooding his tongue, he almost forgets why he is on his knees in the first place and has to remind himself to stay put, swallowing with an obedience his inner-critic taunts him about.

Sitting back on his heels and looking up at Smith strikes him as a scene which could spell his undoing so, instead, he rises to his feet and moves out from between his legs, not letting himself check Smith's face until he sits beside him on the bed again. Then, inclining his head and flicking a thoughtful glance across his profile, only then does he take in the light frown of recovery and the few strands of hair which sweat has stuck to Smith's temples. His eyes are still closed, which is just as well when all the affection Ross buried whilst swallowing Smith's come gets struck by the lightning and brought back to life, tugging the very corners of his lips into a besotted smile.

"Was that okay?" He asks, feather-soft.

"Hn?" Smith answers reflexively and then, when his brain emerges from climactic fog, snaps his eyes open and around to Ross. "Yeah, yeah that was-," every adjective which flurries through his thoughts then is far too emphatic and he doesn't yet know where they stand, so can't be honest, "good, yeah." With a quick consideration of Ross' lips, and what disappeared behind them, he adds, "you didn't have to swallow, though."

"Yeah, well," Ross shrugs and connects their shoulders in the same motion, "easier that way, right?" Saying this, a flicker of something passes across his eyes much like sunlight might flash on waves; a spark that Smith couldn't name and Ross doesn't want to. He looks away, frightened by its potential, and rests back on his hands, taking slow breaths to try and encourage blood flow away from his own, still annoyingly hard, dick.

As if their thoughts are joined, Smith uses the cover of leaning forwards onto his knees to cast a fervent glance at Ross' jeans. Or, more accurately, at the stark line near his fly. He wonders if he should offer to help with it, if doing so would directly indict this being simply about breaking his own curse. It is then he realises, with the weary acceptance of the condemned, that the sudden heat in his stare has been very heavily influenced by heat elsewhere. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He can't move, can't let Ross see that the problem hasn't been solved; can't bear how enthusiastically his body reacts when he briefly imagines where the natural progression of sex acts will lead them.

"I was thinking," Ross muses. With his casual sitting position, thoughtful smile and upturned gaze, he could almost be seen as relaxed, even if his jeans are betraying where he really stands, and Smith is surprised to take this all in with a side of exhilaration.

"Dangerous, mate," he quips. It's a typical joke, barely requiring thought, but the sharpness of Ross' grin lifts Smith's pride when he turns to him as if it was the height of comedy.

"I was thinking," Ross repeats, giving Smith a friendly shoulder-check, "once I got over putting your cock in my mouth, that was weirdly easy," he lazily scrutinises the wardrobe and goes on, "I expected it to be awkward but it's not."

Smith hums, drops his gaze to his hands and idles on them linking between his knees. The thing is, Ross isn't wrong. Fizzling affection notwithstanding, there is a distinct lack of abrasive tension in the air as though they really are just hanging out and not, as it actually happens, trying to come up with varying ways in which making Smith come will break a sex curse he hadn't been the intended target of. If anything, the glowing, tender warmth mingling charismatically with arousal in his bloodstream is also present during more platonic moments, so that's not different either.

"What d'you think?" Ross presses and Smith must swallow a smirk when he hears panic squeeze Ross' words.

"Yeah, no, you're right," Smith agrees and tilts his head, resting his chin on a hand, "thank fuck, though; would have been total shit if this ruined things,"

"Trott would've been so mad," Ross posits.

Smith bites his lip to hide his smirk. At the same instant, Ross turns his head and the impulsive trajectory of his gaze discovers how funny Smith's thinly-veiled amusement is. Curling within their breathless laughter is an abundance of comfort, a sense that stepping over the boundary between platonic and what lies beyond is as easy as avoiding a tree root in a path, rather than hauling themselves over a barbed wire fence. It inspires strength within Smith, tilting his torso back and stabilising it on one extended hand, and means that Ross' glance at his yet again hard dick begets uncomplicated acknowledgement as opposed to fraught hesitation.

"What's next, then?" He asks simply, as though they are discussing something normal rather than more sex.

"Uhhh," Smith turns away to reach for his phone on the nightstand and flicks through it, reading Reddit comments. Given that all his focus is on this, he doesn't notice or anticipate what Ross does in the meantime and, although he hears the shuffling of movement, is therefore surprised to look at him and discover his jeans are no longer obscuring what lay beneath them.

"They were a bit tight," Ross explains, "I can put them back on if it's a problem."

"Not much point," Smith sighs, his rampant desire forestalls the slope of his gaze back up to Ross' face, and holds his phone out. As Ross takes it and reads, he lingers on the edges of his profile, on the tableau of his bare chest and, no matter how adamantly he denies wanting to, the prominently arched outline of his cock in stretched, navy blue jersey. Impulse urges him to touch and restraint turns its steaming boil down to a manageable simmer; it's only a matter of time before he will be allowed to touch, anyway.

"Ah," Ross' smirk has a sympathetic edge, "thought so." He returns Smith's phone, watches him chuck it on the beside table, and wets his lips. Pretending he isn't enthusiastic about what's on the cards is pointless, so he gives up trying to deny it, "have you done that before?"

"Not with a guy," Smith admits and, having also reached a point of unbridled honesty, uses his smirk to reassure Smith that things still aren't awkward, "I mean, I've been bi for years, but girls are just easier."

"Oh," for some reason, this is the most surprising thing Ross has heard all day. In hindsight, this is a bit stupid. Obviously, Smith wouldn't have asked him for help if he was as straight as, say, Trott. "I didn't know that, the bi thing."

"What, really?" Smith carries bemusement as he stands, rolls his shoulders in their joints, and levels his gaze at the bed whilst considering how open he wants to be, "I mean, you should know," he smirks, hiding consternation in its corners, "since it's kinda your fault. Not that it's still, y'know, a thing."

In that moment, Ross believes Smith could have sucker-punched him and it would have been less shocking. His mind goes haywire, running around his skull with all the panic and coordination of a headless chicken, and only manages to scrape his startled gape into an indulgent grin when Smith returns from rummaging in the nightstand to meet him again.

"Same," he admits with antithetical nonchalance, "not any more, obviously, but when we first met, I fancied you."

"Weird how these things turn out, huh?" Smith posits and combines getting onto the bed with chucking the contents of his hand at Ross, who catches it whilst haltingly ungluing his stare from the too tempting sight of Smith reclining against the pillows.

The effect of inspecting his bounty is much like a spark in an arsenal, igniting fires under his skin and spilling smoke into his lungs before his heart manages a single, resonant beat. Truth be told, it's an over-reaction when he has definitely seen lube and condoms before - both are required for what's to come - yet their existence has cemented what had been a fleeting idea as an unavoidable fact. He's going to have sex with Smith; he and Smith, Smith and him, are going to fuck. Somehow the other acts that preceded this one were inconsequential, though that defies logic, and arousal unwinds down his spine, ending as an encouraging twitch within his boxers.

"Hey, Ross, you good?" Smith calls out, unable to ignore Ross' shell-shocked countenance and wanting to ground him.

"Mm," Ross peels himself away from the implicit collection in his hand and slowly takes stock of Smith's sprawl, starting at his legs, travelling up and pausing at his dick, and then enduring the pure attraction he finds in his bared shoulders before ending at his licentious smirk, "sorry, what?"

"I asked if you'd done this before," Smith reiterates, inclining his head.

"Mostly to myself," Ross releases a light chuckle, "but once or twice, yeah."

Inside him, the insatiable hunger which halted his pulse gives way to relief as he shrugs off shock's heavy shroud and begins making his way up the bed. He stops in the circle created by Smith's open knees, however, because being within touching distance has hauled a yearning too potent to control into his chest; a longing to align his body with Smith's, lie with their hips joined, and incite the kind of friction that glitters whilst learning whether Smith is as talkative during ecstasy as he is when impassioned by a personal interest. A question forms on his tongue, thick and syrupy; warm and alive with potential.

"Do you want me to kiss you during," he says slowly, as if a gentle approach is needed, "or no?"

"Do you need to?" Smith responds, searching Ross' eyes and privately hoping that he will satisfy his deepest hunger with an affirmative.

"No," Ross grins, drops his gaze to follow his hand's tentative path up the inside of Smith's thigh, "hard to make you scream my name if my mouth is in the way," and thoroughly enjoys the startled yet aroused way Smith blinks at him in response. Dropping out of eye contact, he watches his hand reach the tantalising junction where limb slopes into the sensitive dip alongside Smith's dick and, glancing up to witness its effect on Smith's eyes, strokes a thumb up from its base.

"Fuck," Smith exhales on the wings of a laugh, "one thing, though,"

"What's that?" Ross asks, coy as anything, and pitches forwards, catching himself on his extended left hand whilst his right trails annoyingly light fingers up to slide through building slickness.

"You're uh- fuck." Eyes flickering, jaw flinching around his hoarse swallow, Smith grapples with reality and tries again, "you're still wearing boxers."

"Good point." In a truly frustrating manner, Ross relinquishes his touch and leans back again, sitting up on his knees as he reaches for his waistband.

Totally bewildered by Ross' unexpected confidence - not to mention the downright overwhelming effect it has on his precarious physical state - Smith stares. Earlier that day he would never have dreamed of doing so, but the idea that he might be presented Ross slowly wriggling his boxers down as though being deliberately flirtatious was previously assumed to be a pipe dream. Self-preservation urges him to make a joke and pass off his anticipation as non-existent, yet the saharah has invaded his mouth and words have wrapped sandpaper around his larynx. So, he stares; stares, bites his lip, and shivers when Ross tosses his boxers off the bed, heralding him shifting back to his previous position. He doesn't make it all the way, however, as Smith, acting on impulse, reaches out to touch stopping fingers to his stomach and then, looking at Ross through his eyelashes for his reactions, skims them downwards until they can curl around his dick.

"Shit, that's-," Ross' eyes flicker, his chest shivers around a slow breath, and his fingers coil in the sheets at Smith's sides.

"Good?" The word barely makes it past Smith's lips, as sodden with arousal as it is; as focused on the glide of Ross' shallow thrusts into his hand as he is.

"Yeah, but," a fraught swallow bobs in Ross' throat and when his eyes slam into Smith's, indecency shines through, "you're the one with the curse."

"Fine," Smith quirks into a half-grin and withdraws his hand, letting it drift to Ross' hip instead, "spoilsport."

Despite how easy this interaction had been, Ross is still consumed by a combination of nerves and arousal, and doesn't dare check Smith's expression until the space between their bodies has been reduced to the point of allowing the head of him to smudge iridescence into Smith's stomach. He hisses unconsciously, but this isn't what pulls his attention when the shaky gasp which breaks in Smith's throat is far more enticing, bringing his gaze up. A second later, Smith's dark gaze flicks to his own and the realisation of where he had been staring is so hot in Ross' veins it burns him. The air thrums.

"Where'd you put the-," Smith chokes out.

"Next to you," Ross murmurs, hopelessly unable to resist holding Smith's eyes in his own, "I can do it, unless you-,"

"Please," Smith exhales and then, hating how desperate he sounded, bridles desire with a goading smirk, "or, whatever, up to you."

"Or, I could," Ross can't place where exactly his nerves have come from, only that they are crawling across his skin like insects, "I could use my tongue, if you want."

"I uh," delicious sparks fire off amongst Smith's synapses and reduce his eloquence to ash, "that. Uh."

"Or not," Ross hides disappointment in his grin and avoids the intrigued stare he mistakes as repulsion, sitting back on his heels whilst reaching for the lube. Throughout the task of making his fingers slippery, he notes a notch of bitterness in his ribs and discerns it as self-inflicted, believing that the damage was done by overstepping an unspoken boundary rather than rejection.

Unfortunately, in the time it takes for Smith's short-circuited thoughts to reboot, Ross has already moved on and any agreement he might offer would be too little too late. Well, at least he'll have plenty to fuel his shameful wanks after this is all over; it's a bizarre silver lining, all things considered, but he'll take it. Ross lifts his head to cock a smirk at him and its light is so enthralling, so distracting, that meaning slips out of Smith's thoughts until a fingerprint slides between his legs, circles shockwaves up his spine, and it all comes back to him in a single, blinding instant. A moan spirals out of him without warning, his thighs tense and push him down onto the gradual rise of pressure; sensation drags under his skin and sutures his eyes shut. Needing something to stabilise his frenetic limbs, he reaches a hand up to the headboard, hears the creak under his grip harmonising with his raw groan, and only breathes when his lungs sting.

Unholy reverence bubbles blasphemy over Ross' lips in mockery of prayer. His hyper-focused state guides all his attention to the give and take of Smith around his fingers, to the uncoordinated shudders rolling up his stomach, and how hollow the palm of his free hand is despite being stuck to Smith's thigh. Oh, but the absolute delight coursing through his veins makes it worth the shift towards Smith's dick when a single stroke brings forth the kind of ragged, crackling moan that changes pitch as it ends. He can't rush though, not this, no matter how much his dick aches to be encompassed by the same enticing tension intermittently pressing around his fingers as he cautiously spreads them.

Smith's reactions aren't helping, however. His breaths are shaky yet synchronised with Ross' hand, drawing in as he pushes deeper and exhaling when he slides out, and Smith's knees have parted, bowing loosely at Ross' sides or tensing, bending, to roll his hips down. And then, the final brick in Ross' already cracked restraint is removed; Smith's eyes partially open, quickly merge into his own, and flash beneath furrowed brows whilst his bottom lip becomes pinned between his teeth. It is, in few words, unbearably alluring.

"Fucking hell, Smith," Ross tells him, too caught up in the moment to hold back, "you want it that badly, huh?"

"Why-," a harsh inhale scrapes through Smith's lungs. His lip  shines as he speaks, curls enigmatically, and Ross holds an irrational belief that he would agree to anything asked of him, if it came from that oh-so-tempting mouth, "why don't you get over here and find out?"

"Are you-," Ross starts, endlessly apprehensive because insurmountable eagerness means nothing if he might do harm.

"Yes," Smith interrupts and tenses around Ross fingers, rolling his hips like a tidal wave of anticipation.

"Okay, hang on," Ross exhales in a rush and removes his hands to reach for the required items at Smith's side.

Whilst this takes place, Smith sits up enough to grab a nearby pillow and catches the rough glance Ross throws at his midriff when he tucks it under his hips. Neither of them speak because Ross is trying to stay steady whilst guiding himself forwards and Smith is at that recklessly eager point of almost begging for Ross to hurry up and fuck him already. Eye contact becomes forfeit to the head-rush which connection brings, analogies for the last barrier of friendship being torn asunder present themselves at the forefront of otherwise blank minds, and finality is felt on all fronts when Ross is fully enclosed. There is no going back now. In the clouding air around them, lightning illuminates shared desires, glowing as it careens across sweat. Ross lifts his head to check in on Smith's condition and thunder growls out of their lungs as moans as, at long last, he starts to move.

"Bloody hell," he gasps, the unholy shudder of pleasure that bubbles through him ending as an almost detrimental flinch of his arms. Looking at Smith slowly, drawing his gaze up his entirety and feeling his throat clench around a would-be moan, he catches the fleeting furrow of Smith's brow before it swiftly becomes an encouraging grin and its sunlight burns in his chest. "You okay?" He asks.

"God, yeah," Smith exhales whilst notching a heel into Ross' upper thigh and coaxing him forwards, "come here." His hand slides back from Ross' shoulder, his arm loops around it instead, bringing him closer. The glow that bursts into being within his ribs flashes behind his teeth as their foreheads touch and shakes the edges of his grin in tandem with a shallow pulse of Ross' hips.

Despite how eagerly Smith is tightening around him - almost as if he is drawing each sigh of desolation out with subtly flexing muscles - and the unmistakably goading tilt of his smirk, Ross can't rid himself of stalling hesitation. He wants to apply speed, to forget reality in the heave of their synchronised bodies, and if the fraught consequences that it would bring weren't looming on the horizon, he would pin Smith to the sheets and fuck the very breath from his lungs. Acting with tentative touches and careful deliberation, he doesn't barrel headfirst through preconceived boundaries and, instead, gently pushes them by fitting a stabilising arm into the swoop of Smith's lower back or cautiously running his mouth along his throat. What he doesn't expect, because he would never even dream of hearing it, is the hoarse, needy utterance Smith murmurs right into his ear.

"I'm not gonna break, Ross," and then, paired with an urging tangle of fingers in Ross' hair and a strong grasp of his arm, "go faster, I know you want to," 

"Hh- shit," Ross huffs and obliges, letting Smith's permission guide his hips into a looser pace. He is rewarded by a broken gasp against his cheek and, when he struggles to pull his face out of Smith's neck, the unhidden exhilaration framing Smith's eyes to bring out their deepened colour. "Fuck, Smith," he almost laughs in disbelief, still not quite able to wrap his mind around what's happening, "feels so fucking good,"

"Yeah," Smith beams and the incandescence of his grin reaches right down Ross' throat to press gilded fingerprints into his heart, "yeah, fuck, don't stop." Shaky legs lift and part, providing easier access, and learning the intrinsic tempo of Ross' movements becomes effortless; he jerks forwards, Smith rolls to meet him, and every time sprightly flames ignite in their fractured moans.

Amongst the heated collections of typical bed creaks, harshly exhaled encouragement, and the instinctive shifting of limbs to make the flow of movement easier, is an unexpected melody of enjoyment. Jokes are made when Smith discovers how responsive Ross is to having his hair pulled, a taunting kick of his heel into Ross' back is met with a playful bite - and then savouring suck - of his collarbone, and ignoring the deep-rooted tendrils of devotion curling around their bones is done readily when the want to kiss can be waylaid by hissing dirty talk with hints of mockery into each other's ears. Instead of awkward and hindered by any worries for their changed future, sex is extraordinarily easy and unequivocally normal, as though it had been missing from their relationship all along.

Utterly forsaken by a collaboration of head-spinning sensation and the entrancing glide - in and out; tense and release - of fucking Smith, Ross almost forgets how to breathe. His gaze cannot be dissuaded from watching Smith unspool beneath him, travelling up past the contrasting pale to flush where Smith's fingers are working over his own dick, and ending at the impassioned furrows of his facial features. It is completely rewarding to not only witness Smith's enthusiasm but to feel it too, in every shuddering tense of his muscles and each quiver of his thighs; in the warm sweetness folding against his cheek whenever Smith moans. Discovering how incomparable it all is to his dreams - which could only hint at the unknowable - is an entirely sinful sort of divine. This doesn't mean that hesitation doesn't occasionally hit him, however, which it does in abundance when Smith's hand slides up to his sternum, catching both chest hair and his attention.

It takes insuperable willpower for Ross to pause, especially when lifting one leg into a braced bend pushes Smith's connected thigh higher and the effect which unspools all the way up Smith's stomach, flinching in muscles as it goes, informs him of a very specific place he has inadvertently brushed. Smith swallows, eyes squeezed shut and barring Ross from the starlight which erupted behind them, and only opens them once abrupt inertia fades.

"Want me to ride you for a bit?" He asks then, carrying no resistance other than the expected hitches of his words.

"Yeah," Ross laughs, relieved that this isn't the stop he thought it was, "go for it."

He pulls out and rolls off Smith, props his back on the headboard, and Smith climbs into his lap just as seamlessly. In the pause afforded by Smith reaching back and guiding Ross dick inside him again, their foreheads rest on one another and giddy grins cut into the edges of hazy vision like bladed vignettes. Gone are the reservations which kept hands at their sides at the start and, without their tethers, Ross is free to learn all the ways Smith's body yields under sweat-slick palms. Each roll of Smith's hips coaxes his own up to meet him and after no time at all, the protests of bed springs are accompanied by the staccato percussion of skin-on-skin. It's incredible, it's overwhelming; it's so good it begets bewildering disbelief in him and grows the sort of insatiable hunger in his veins which can only be fulfilled by tasting Smith's pulse under the sea salt tang of his throat.

"Wait," Smith musters and tips backwards, bracing himself on one arm beside Ross' knee whilst running the other hand over the borderline unbearable ache of his cock. He grins at Ross' unfettered stare, conducts his strokes to the tempo of his lifting and dropping hips, and lacks inhibitions that might otherwise cut off his next words, "feel so good inside me, Ross; so fucking deep,"

"Jesus," Ross chokes in tandem with a spasm of his legs, "that's fucking filthy," his hands grab at Smith's sides, sneaking dimples into their forgiving curves, and the effect of his grin is by no means lessened by its wavering corners, "it's really fucking hot."

"Yeah?" Smith bites his lip, releasing it with tempting slowness, "don't stop; fuck me faster."

"Fuck's-," as if yanked by Smith's invitation, Ross swings himself upwards, slides his arms around Smith's waist, and acts with the desire-sodden ambition of fusing their bodies together. He buries groan, after groan, after groan in Smith's neck, hears his babbled curses streaming past his hair and doesn't understand their meaning, but feels their enthusiasm unwinding the tightly-coiled spring of ecstasy in his stomach. Yet, in a way that is totally, utterly baffling, he doesn't want to come. All he yearns for is the breathless gasps Smith bleeds into his senses or the endless heat of his bouncing, shaking, chaotic movements to never, ever stop. It's this that drags his lips up Smith's throat, runs his tongue through warm sweat and fluttering heartbeats, and cups both hands around the curves of his backside. Every lift and push invites more euphoria than he can manage, spinning endless greed and eagerness in his veins until he is dizzy.

"Smith," he murmurs under Smith's jaw and noses at his cheek as he tilts back, wanting to embroider their gazes together, "you're so-," but he can't say what he wants to say, can't bruise their already injured friendship with honesty, and brings their foreheads into alignment, perhaps hoping Smith can read his mind that way.

"God, I can't fucking-," Smith huffs, features wavering between consternation and amusement, finds Ross' bottom lip with his fingers, "handle it when you look at me like that," and traces their swell as though learning their shape by touch alone. He isn't disappointed by Ross flinching away though when, not even a second later, he sears their eyes into each other and slides the fingers into his mouth, rubbing his tongue into their prints. "Ross," Smith's voice crackles, his hips spasm, and the effect is doubled by his dick leaving a hot trail on Ross' stomach; an act which has him impulsively swaying, nearly rutting to repeat. 

"That's it, Smith," Ross murmurs upon releasing Smith's fingers, though the words tattoo them as they withdraw, "does that feel good?" If he were a little more in tune with his own thoughts before they spill out of his mouth, he might not let them escape, but it's too late to try and grasp them when his cognition has been hindered by pleasure, "you look amazing, riding me like this."

"Hh, god, come here," Smith groans and, with a surprisingly steady arm around Ross' shoulders, tips himself back whilst taking Ross with him. His spine hits the sheets, the bed creaks upon impact, yet neither of these permeate his awareness when the change of position gives Ross' thrusts a freedom they had been lacking whilst pinned under his hips. "Oh my fuck- shit-," he is speaking without forethought; there is no care for volume or desperation in him any more, "fuck me harder,"

"Like this?" Ross rolls into him again, his arm tight around Smith's back to hold him in place and their mouths close enough to threaten a kiss, "don't hold back, Smith; I wanna hear you."

Compared to Ross' gradual approach, the blurring of Smith's senses is immediate and within the fog are flashes of confusion. Falling backwards took his hands away from both the sheets and his dick, yet each intense thrust inside of him pushes limitless heat through his hips, across his stomach, and into his chest as if his ribs are constructing a sun. Skin slides with sweat under his wavering grasp and his burning senses hone in on all the tiny details - rounded shoulders, dark stubble, hair falling across tempestuous eyes - that form a bigger picture entitled Ross. Knowing he is mere seconds from falling off into the unfathomable release doesn't make understanding its depth any easier; if anything, it detriments it. A million different emotions are bludgeoning him all at once and it takes so much energy, more energy than he can really afford, to find Ross' cheek with his mouth.

"Ross, fuck, I'm gonna come," the words blur together like wet paint, though nothing short of a miracle could make them clear.

"Wait," Ross turns his head and ignores the fizzle of his lips brushing Smith's, "really? But I'm not-,"

"Oh my god," there is desperation in Smith's laugh, "shut up and fuck me," and the brunt of it removes all hope of restraint. As such, he doesn't think about anything except the skittering adrenaline filling his bones and, when he catches it with his own, how soft, malleable and eager Ross' mouth is.

Desolate yearning emerging from Ross' chest stains Smith's tongue with a moan when their lips part to allow for the cataclysm they have awaited. Combine it with the sharp, high blusters of sound echoing out of Smith's throat into his skull and the yield of firm, slippery skin in the hand he shoves between their quivering stomachs, and it is a wonder that he manages to hold himself together at all. Despite how easy it would be to submit to the call of climax within him, he detaches from Smith with a crude pop and pushes himself up on his free hand so that his eyes can drink their fill of watching Smith crumble.

"Ro- Ross," Smith pants deliriously, digging his fingers into Ross' shoulder and swiping his frantic gaze between their entwined bodies and the swift strokes of Ross' hand. At the last second before inescapable saltwater rises into his throat, he finds Ross' eyes and the crests of absolute enjoyment within them slice clean through his tether to reality. He drowns, curls in on himself like the tide hugs the shore, and though his intention had been to muffle his moan in Ross' mouth, he doesn't quite make it and merely smudges it onto his cheek.

"Holy fuck," Ross exhales roughly. He is so mesmerised by the spilling of come over his fingers - Smith's come, he reminds himself dizzily - and the shine of it melting into Smith's stomach hair, the pulses running across his hand, that he only remembers to inhale much-needed oxygen when his chest squeezes uncomfortably. Then, drawing in a noisy breath, only then does glance up to see the bliss softening Smith's features. "Holy fuck," he repeats, not for emphasis but simply because no other words can emerge past the rush that seeing Smith like this invokes. Once enough consciousness has been recovered, he shifts, thinking that he needs to move back and pull out regardless of how close he is to the edge, but Smith tenses around him, digs heels into his lower back, and completely eradicates that plan.

"No, please," Smith urges hoarsely and cups Ross' face in both hands, "don't. Keep going, keep fucking me."

"Fuck," Ross almost sobs, struggling to keep his eyes open. His hands fly to the sheets, bunching them in his trembling fingers; forming spirals which parallel the ones tightening in his veins, "oh, fucking- Smith,"

"Yeah," Smith gasps, flicking his hips too and fro with wild urgency, "come on, please," he smudges his mouth into the corner of Ross', tattooing his skin with a thoughtless mess of sordid poetry, and upon bearing the intrinsically awe-inspiring shudder and release of Ross' limbs, links his ankles behind his back to barr him from withdrawal. In that moment, as beholden to the innate knowledge of what's about to happen as he is, he speaks from the heart whilst his mind isn't paying attention, "come inside me."

That shatters the last of Ross' resistance. Reeling, choking on broken gasps and pressing into Smith as closely as physically possible, he explores a galaxy of emotions too intense to name and hovers, weightless and dizzy, in oblivion. The eventual descent isn't sudden, it's gradual; a slow saunter down to reality whilst picking up his scattered pieces along the way. His head, somehow still attached to his body, drops onto Smith's shoulder and the taut claws of his hands loosen into uselessness, skimming across the sheets as his arms give way. As melted as he is, he can't move, but mercy is granted by Smith carefully guiding him away and the support allows his still twitching body to roll onto the bed beside him.

Smith, despite the soothing glow of release, is mortified. Yes, that was incredible and sure, there is nothing better than good sex, no matter who it involves, yet he is horribly aware of what was said in the heat of the moment. At least the curse is definitely broken, now; he felt it snap whilst his earth-shattering orgasm burst beneath his tailbone. Still, he looks at Ross, takes in his shaky recovery with a now anticipated helping of unruly affection, and can only beg whatever deity might take pity on him that Ross didn't hear him, despite knowing that Ross' comeuppance was intrinsically linked to it.

"Back in a sec," he tells Ross and leaves the room without looking back in case doing so reveals a shard of his heart has been stuck in Ross' chest.

As ethereal as his body feels, Ross doesn't hear this, but he does hear the closure of the bathroom door and this is what snaps his eyes open. The temperature around him plummets, taking his racing heart with it, and goosebumps borne from icy regret spread like glaciers across his arms. All of a sudden, he is restless, fighting to keep his head above water, and for lack of anything more appealing to do he shakily removes the condom, tying it off and sitting up so he can search Smith's room for a bin. He feels stupid, stupid and afraid of a future he forgot was on the horizon whilst losing himself in Smith's warmth, and when the hollow abyss where his innards used to be spews shame out of its shadows, he seeks out his discarded boxers. For a moment there, he thought fate might steer him in the direction of a tenderness he always wished for and the truth isn't just disappointing, it's painful.

Meanwhile, in the bathroom, cruel irony has placed Smith on the edge of his bath whilst completely unaware of how synchronised his thoughts are with Ross'. A powerful drive to return to normalcy has him grasping at straws, sending him down paths of inquiry such as whether he could excuse what he said as being the curse's fault, or if he should bite the bullet and admit to Ross that what he previously alluded to as past tense is not only present, but a definitive future as well. The latter comes with an almost debilitating level of agony, of course, and this would usually be off-putting, except the conclusion currently stuck between Smith's teeth has already convinced him that no matter what he says, things will be different between him and Ross now. In other words, confessing and setting himself up for rejection won't heal the wounds, so whether or not it rubs salt in them is irrelevant.

"Alright," he says aloud, picks up his head from the cradle of his hands, "this is it, then," and strides out of the bathroom with his shield already up.

Ross is sitting at the end of the bed when Smith appears over the bedroom threshold, one leg up and resting its foot on the other's thigh, and wearing boxers again. The smile he aims at Smith's approach doesn't see fit to share its prerogative with his eyes and even their shoulders lightly touching when Smith joins him seems colder than usual. Almost immediately, his gaze is snatched by a mark the colour of ripe raspberries giving Smith's collarbone an odd shadow and shame rises like acid reflux when he remembers who put it there.

"Sorry about-," he begins.

"I want to-," Smith says simultaneously.

The laughter they share is lackluster and dull. Passing a hand towards Smith, Ross beckons him to go first and, though he appreciates the gesture, Smith wishes he didn't have to speak at all.

"I guess, first things first, the curse is gone," he says steadily, "so, thanks for that."

"Welcome," Ross flashes that terribly empty smile again and it restricts Smith's breathing for a second.

"Anyway, um. I haven't been honest with you, which isn't fair." Unable to staunch the flow of misery into his lungs is too difficult whilst maintaining eye contact and Smith looks away, studying his hands instead. "I didn't just ask you because I trust you. I mean, I do, obviously, but shit," he sighs, unable to prune fear when its roots are already sunk into his bones, "it's a bit more than that."

"Meaning what?" Ross' heart has become a trapped bird in the cage of his ribs, batting its frantic wings against the underside of his skin and making a ragged mess of his breathing. It isn't panic, however, it's something far more life-altering and exhilarating; it's hope. His gaze sticks to Smith's averted frown as though the universe's secrets might be hidden within the lines of his face because, though trusting his instincts does not come easily to him, all signs are pointing to one explanation alone.

"You know I said that, uh, you caused me being bi?" Smith's mouth promises a smirk but the rest of his features refuse to follow through.

"Yeah," Ross wants to add and I said the same thing about you, but doesn't want to interrupt in case it might wake him up from what is so obviously a dream.

"That wasn't a lie, I hadn't really thought about my sexuality until I met you," Smith sighs again and, as true resignation fills in the gaps left by his exhale, he inclines his head to meet Ross' unreadable gaze, "it's the other thing I said that was bullshit," and then, feeling as though it needs to be reiterated, "about it being in the past."

"You," this is too big for Ross to wrap his head around, "are you fucking with me?" He says this with airy disbelief, not acrimony, yet Smith's emotions are so intense he hears it as the latter anyway.

"What?" Smith straightens up, pushing misery to one side in favour of a defensive glare, "what the fuck, no! Of course I'm not fu-,"

Due to how quickly it consumes his bloodstream with a rush of pure delight, Ross hums pleasantly against the unparalleled softness of Smith's mouth and, with its reassuring vibration, melts Smith right to his core. Ross discovers that the subtle curve of Smith's jaw fits seamlessly in his fingers, feels the thrum of his pulse as a spring pouring ichor into his veins, and the joy which Smith's hand curling around his wrist bubbles up in his chest has all the brightness and effervescence of champagne.

"Wait, wait," Smith babbles, pulling away in ignorance of his heart's emphatic protests, "hang on, I'm so fucking confused."

"Come on, mate," Ross doesn't even smirk, simply beams and touches the tips of their noses together just because he can, "you're smarter than that."

"I dunno," Smith snorts, "might be over-estimating me, there."

Leaning back, dropping a hand so he can catch Smith's with it in a move that both would consider surprising if they weren't too busy learning the colours of one another's eyes, Ross gives him a pointed stare whilst entwining their fingers.

"Oh," Smith exhales. Then, on the back of a laugh, "I guess I know why you said yes now," and, after searching Ross' eyes for deceit and finding only devotion, "really?"

"Well, yeah," Ross muses and squeezes his fingers, "you should look in a mirror some day, mate." He sees the argument flash behind Smith's eyes before it reaches his mouth and adds, "but yes, really. I'm not out here breaking sex curses for any idiot who gets hit by one."

"Hey," Smith grins. In truth, stopping the broad curl of his lips is as impossible as stopping a flying baseball with feathers, "what happened to 'you're smarter than that'?"

Instead of replying, Ross chucks an arm around Smith's middle and tackles him onto the bed, using the momentum to catch his mouth again. As is perhaps expected, the stability of his enthusiasm gets threatened by the weightless laughter building in both his and Smith's chests, until dopamine wins out and calms them enough to allow their smiles to become forged copies of each other. There is untold wonder in drawing his fingertips across the ridges of Smith's, in gently entangling their legs and experiencing the surprisingly tender brush of body hair curling together. It brings him up to study infinite potential in the curves of Smith's smile lines and, when a hand comes up to touch his cheek, tilts his face to kiss the fragile underside of Smith's wrist.

"Are we, like, boyfriends now?" The word sounds foreign, alien, in Smith's mouth and he pulls a face.

"Sure, if you want," Ross tries to shrug and ends up wobbling instead, given that his arm is currently sewn into the dip of Smith's back, "I'm too happy to care."

"Aw," Smith simpers playfully, "that's really gay, mate."

"Oh, suck my dick," Ross retorts without thinking about it, until Ross raises an eyebrow and the implication hits him, "I mean,"

"Maybe later," Smith grins and draws Ross down to him again, wanting to taste the sweetness of his laugh and brimming over with so much elation it seems tangible enough to be held in his hands.

They stay that way whilst the sun continues its habitual descent past the horizon, committing the maps of their bodies to memory and speaking in the hushed, warm tones typical of intimacy like this. Smith traces the fragile bones of Ross' hand with his fingertips and Ross, watching the gradual sunlight of Smith's smile casting away any lingering shadows, entwines their fingers and calls Smith down to him when their eyes meet. There is nothing simpler than being close for the sake of it, than filling up the cracks of their souls with pieces of each other, and both are granted immortality by what facsimile heaven they create with tender caresses. Eventually, however, they are reminded that infinity is a lie and escape the cocoon of Smith's bedroom in search of earthly sustenance.